Only If For A Night
by burningjackets
Summary: He's a human. Again. In 1898. Working at a newspaper. Half in love with Arthur Williams.   It's very horribly complicated, isn't it?
1. Chapter 1

**Guys it's me again, with my eleven/rory AUs abundant. This time, it's eleven who is stuck as a human in Glasgow, Scotland in 1898. **

**Characters not mine, unfortunately. **

John Smith had hair he could not explain.

He was a rather conservative man in a conservative society; wearing nice brown suits his friend Amelia insist he wear, taking the time to shine his shoes every night without fail, and there was nary a thread out of place.

His hair though, was inexplicable.

It drooped over his eyes, making it hard to see anything without batting it first out of his gaze. It stuck up in a way that made little old ladies tighten the grip on their purses and hats when he passed by.

It seemed unnatural, that infernal droop coming even when his hair was shorn.

It was a weakness of John Smith; his dastardly, evil, hair, along with his boss, Mr. Fletching, deadlines, and spiders, which Amelia would never let him forget, bless her heart.

_Surely those things can't be natural? _

But none-the-less, John Smith was a perfectly well-adjusted, well-groomed, pleasant-mannered man.

Excepting his nightmares, but that was just insane conjuring of his mind, late at night.

He didn't write them down, in case someone would find out and mock him, but they were like photographs in his head, crystal-clear and sometimes even _moving_, that novel thought.

Amelia was there, except she was wearing a skirt of ungodly length and called herself "Amy." John personally thought his Amelia was much more refined, with her graceful walk and her biting wit, and he realized he wouldn't have to choose, because it was all a dream.

Except, oh, and that's a big except, there was this man in his dreams as well. Called himself "Rory."

John was a weaker fellow, gawky with not much muscle, but this man was somehow more gawky and slender, with obscene shirts that were checked all-around and with runners on his feet, so different than the ones he used at polo, but this man wore it as well as he would a fine suit.

He was tall with hair the colour of sand, a rather large nose that John found strangely appealing, and something shining right under his skin, spilling sunshine from within.

John wasn't proud to say that he took a fancy to this "Rory" man, and Amelia laughed, twinkling bells, when she heard about his insane thinkings.

"Don't be ridiculous. Firstly, a man? I definitely knew it, Doctor," Amelia stopped midsentence, a gasp on the bow of her lips, and she smiled instead, trying to cover up his slip.

"John, I'm apologize. I was thinking of my new… beau. He's a doctor at the clinic in York, and… he comes to visit me every month. Takes a train and everything," She widened her eyes, and crossed her legs daintily, laid her intercrossed hands on her lap, and took a sip of her tea calmly.

"Oh really? Makes a bit of pence, does he?" John said knowingly. He was familiar with Amelia's habits of courting men.

"Oh, he makes a bit," Amelia winked, and John chortled and smiled at her, used to her unusually saucy ways, and really, she was a dear sister to him, nothing more.

She did try to seduce him once, but he had to have an awful conversation with her later about him and his feelings on men, and she brightened a bit, straightening her dress and promising to drop by for 6:00 tea, as they always do, and John was left flabbergasted, with his shirt-tail out of his trousers and his infernal hair drooping over his eyes again.

They had got on pleasantly since then, and nobody had mentioned it, except for the frequent badgering's from Amelia about "whether he had met a nice fellow yet," and "I saw this man on the street, and apparently he's unattached. Would you like to meet him?"

No, Amelia, he would say. I'll be lonely for now.

And he was lonely. When Amelia left promptly at 7:25, escorted by her chauffeur, he was left frowning into a pot of cold tea, only surrounded by housekeepers until the next morning when he left for work.

Amelia had scoffed when she heard he was working. "Your father patented modern medicine as it is, John. You don't have to work a day in your life!"

He persisted though, said "It was for the experience, darling," and promptly got a job at the Glasgow Times, knocking about with articles about rubbish things. He was usually got stuck with writing about the infernal people who lived in Glasgow, about their social lives that his boss said he would know a lot about, him being the John A. Smith that had been on everybody's lips and ears as "Scotland's most eligible bachelor," for four years.

He despised being called that, a painful reminder about why he was always so alone and desperate.

He went to bed early whenever Amelia stopped by on her Wednesday's and Sundays.

He cleaned his shoes again, for the second time that night, and relit his pipe, sending sweet tobacco smoke into the air, scenting his clothes.

He got up and read for about an hour after in his library; books filled with poetry from Keats and Poe and Shelley and the grand stories of Dickens and Twain and Tolstoy while Brahms and Wagner played on, the fire-heat lapping at his legs, the shadows of the bookcases making the large room feel cozy. Amelia said it gave her fear, so many things that could topple and crush in this room, and she never quite liked literature either, especially when he droned about this article one of his mates ("No, I don't fancy him.") had written about Arthur Conan Doyle, and he had decided to read his works, and he was in love, by golly, and Amelia rolled her eyes and delicately sipped her tea.

He finished his book and stretched heavenward, feeling that heat wash over his exposed stomach and he almost purred like Amelia's sweet-tempered tabby cat, Edwin.

He got up, picking up the empty glass that once held bourbon inside, and tipped the ashes out of his pipe into a waiting dish. He left the cup in his study, a desk with stacks of books and a typewriter, brand new, a birthday gift from Amelia.

He didn't know why Amelia was so wealthy, she was pretty tight-lipped about the matter, but he knew she gave a lot in kindness. After he was weaned off the drink a month ago, she had helped him get shaped up, even giving him a nice silver pocket watch when he just ordered water at the bar with his mates, which now lay in his library, unopened. It didn't work, why open it?

He let it slip from his mind, and he went upstairs to put on his bed-clothes and to prepare himself for a rough night. Nights after Amelia had left were the hardest on him. The dreams were the most vivid.

This night was no different, with him jumping around with the same infernal hair and a bow-tie of all things, with Amelia hoisting guns that shot light beams and not looking a tad affected, and that "Rory" man that John had grown soft for.

This time was a kicker; they were in the 2000's, only a thousand years away, and they were underground, helping almost lizard-like people and then Rory got hit with a light beam and then Amelia (Who was married to Rory in this situation) forgot about him.

There was also Vincent Van Gogh featured lightly in it, a man who one of his comrades talked about frequently, and who had passed early this year, and John took a begrudging liking the man he never met.

He woke up at 6: 14, his biological clock precise to the minute, and got himself dressed perfectly for work, putting on his trousers and buttoning up his dress shirt and donning a jacket and a cap for the day. He slipped on his shoes, quickly checked to see if he had notes he needed, and he took off, yelling a "See you tonight!" at his housekeepers and locking the door behind him.

He started down the street and flagged a buggy over towards him. One; after a while, mind you; finally pulled over, and he climbed in, stating his destination.

Two other men sat in the small cab; one with his face wholly shielded by a newspaper, the other staring out the window with a blank look on his face. They all sat in silence as the buggy slowed and the absentminded man by the window got up slowly and paid his dues, staggering out towards the rain-soaked plains of Glasgow.

John reached out and slammed the door shut behind the man, and it caused the other man with the newspaper to jump, nearly out of his seat.

"I'm sorry for startlingly you, dear chap," John started, and the stranger dropped his newspaper onto his lap and John almost gasped.

It was Rory from his dreams. Exactly. Down the shagged blonde hair to the nose.

Rory (?) smiled at him and said, with a calm voice, "Didn't startle me at all, don't worry. I am simply high-strung from my job. I'm starting today, you see, and I'm horribly nervous."

John couldn't stop gaping at Rory's (?) face, taking it in so hungrily that the other man shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, fidgeting a bit with his thumbs.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that you look like someone I knew, once," John apologized, and the man smiled and said sociably, "I get that a lot."

"Now, where are you starting at? Your new job?" John asked, genuinely intrigued this time, partly in due of the Rory-likeness and to the adorable fidgeting.

"The Glasgow Times, actually. Literature column," The Rory-doppelganger said, smiling a bit bashfully, and John raised his eyebrows. Well, he tried to. Truth was that he had very little eyebrows.

"I'm the Social column. Four years now," He said, and the doppelganger looked surprised before reaching over to shake his hand firmly.

"We'll be seeing each other, presumably. I'm Arthur Williams," He shot him a small smile, and John returned the handshake with fervour.

"I shall hope so. John Smith," He said in way of introducing himself, and Arthur nodded before dropping his hand and reassembling his newspaper, tucking it under his arm.

"Our offices are a step away. Let's walk," Arthur said, and John nodded, getting his briefcase and hastily tugging his hat back on.

"But it's raining outside, Arthur," John was nagging him like a mother, inappropriate for someone he had met not but a minute ago, but Arthur just laughed and grabbed the fussing hands to still them.

"What you must learn about me, John, is that I love walking in the rain," And with that, the doors opened, he paid the fare, and jumped off into the crowds while John stood, open-mouthed at Arthur's back.

_Oh, wait till I tell Amelia._

**WIP! AH!**

**Review if the day is long and the winds seem to sing through the branches of that old oak tree in your backyard.**

**(or just because you liked the story that's cool too lol)**


	2. Chapter 2

**next chapter badabing**

**(characters don't belong to me)**

* * *

><p>John Smith didn't notice the black, sprawling clouds when he came out of the buggy that morning, so close after Arthur jumped out and left him gape-mouthed.<p>

Why should he, when there's something new and exciting to be known, to be fantasized about?

Maybe making a man into a God wasn't the most intelligent thing he could do, but as he looked out on the crowds of people through the light of day-break, his thoughts flowed to him to the crowds to Amelia and back again.

But the important bit is that he never looked up to the dark sky and found the red-black clouds peculiar.

The buggy stopped with a jerk and he got up, rocking slightly as the rains buffeted the thin walls of the carriage and the horses tossed their heads, and reached deeply into the pocket of his suit jacket (It was blue this time. He had been feeling adventurous) and paid the cabby what he owed.

He stepped off and immediately covered his head with his briefcase, keeping his head down, and rushing into the slightly run-down building the Glasgow Times had called home.

The warmth engulfed him at once, reminding him of the sweet heat of his library. He very so wished that he could have been there right then, perhaps rereading his beloved Dickens, but he could not, damned by his decision to work. He made the long, damp walk to his small office in the corner of the building, greeting his friend Erik and Mark (They were editors) who were talking quite exuberantly about something, and John remembered Arthur.

_Wasn't Arthur working here now_? His heart leaped, and he looked anxiously around him, looking for that familiar face, but only seeing the rumpled faces of his coworkers at 6 in the morning.

He sighed, digging out his keys and unlocking the door to his office and stepping inside, discarding his damp jacket onto a coat-rack and setting his briefcase onto his desk, briefly considering going through the contents, but deciding that he didn't need to. He'd looked through them what must have been a dozen times.

He settled down at his desk, and reread some memos from his contacts; basically nameless people who gave him inside information and disappeared in the Glaswegian streets. He had his suspicions on who they truly were, but kept it to himself.

He didn't really enjoy writing about other people's social life, but it was easy for him, more convenient than World Affairs or such nonsense.

He worked dutifully through the morning, reading anonymous memos and typing up the weeks "social happenings," when a knock sounded at his door. He looked up at his grandfather clock, a present from his uncle, and shouted, "Come in!"

"John!" A chipper voice called from outside his doorway, and John craned his neck to see Charles, his only real mate at the firm, grinning with all his might, his bowler drooping down his face, still heavy with water.

"Hello, Charlie," He said happily. Charles pulled a face at the nickname, and leaned across his doorway.

Charles was perhaps a year older than him, and had perfectly groomed black hair that John had unending envy over. He also had a neat little mustache that John must say he was not particularly fond of, and spoke with a thick Scottish accent, opposed to John imported English one. He had blue, blue eyes that made ladies swoon, but John knew Charles was the same as he; he was having an affair with a bloke who worked in Photography. Charles had told him this on a drunken night out at their favourite bar, Harrison's, and John didn't think Charles knew he was aware of it. So, he stayed quiet while Charles stayed happy.

"What can I do for you, old chap?" John said, turning to face away from his, rummaging through his briefcase.

Every day at noon precisely, almost the entire firm closes and they all go out for lunch, going to a fish-and-chips shop down the way or Harrison's bar. John and Charles always, _always_ went out for lunch, and it was getting quite dull, if John was honest, with just the two of them.

"Apparently there's a new bloke taking over for Higgens for Literature. I was thinking we go say hello before we close up shop for lunch," Charles said, chipper, and John thought yes, that's definitely Arthur.

Would Arthur remember him? Most likely no, unless he introduced himself again. They had locked eyes for the briefest of moments before Arthur had jumped out.

"Why not. I'll lock up here," He said, gathering his jacket from the coatrack and slipping it on, patting his sides to see if his money-clip was still safe tied up inside his pocket, and, feeling the reassuring bulge, nodded at Charles, who then lead the way towards the Literature and Music offices, winding between the Accountant offices while doing so.

"Calling for an Arthur Williams!" Charles called loudly as they reached the door, and rapped on it several, hard times.

A tired-faced man poked his head out after minutes of incessant knocking and calling provided by Charles, and looked them over a couple times, as if the first time didn't quite stick.

"Can I help you?" He asked finally, and Charles stepped forward, affecting a sweet-boy disguise, and folded his hands behind his back, leaning forward to look like a child in trouble.

"If we are not bothering you too much, we would like to request a certain Mr. Arthur Williams for lunch," He said, smiling sweetly.

Music and Literature usually work through lunch for some reason, which was peculiar, because the only real time they had needed to was when Doyle came by from visiting his family, and only really stayed for about 5 minutes.

"Williams?" The man blinked up at them, his large, bushy mustache twitching lazily under his nose, and rubbed the tiredness from his eye with a calloused, red hand.

"Yes, sir. Arthur Williams. Is he available for lunch?" Charles said pleasantly, and the man sighed and turned back into the room, mouth opening to shout over the small buzz of voices that always somehow comes with people in Music.

"WILLIAMS!" He called back into the room, and at least seven men's heads popped up, all eerily similiar in their ready-to-please expressions.

"Yes, boss?" They chirped, almost exactly in perfect synchrony, wide smiles on their stubble-free faces.

"Not you - ARTHUR WILLIAMS!" He shouted, and at last, Arthur's voice sounded from a run-down red velvet coach in the corner, where he had been talking with another man, who looked on impassively.

"Yes, sir?" He said nervously, and, with a nervous glance shot at his companion who smirked back at him, he pried himself off the couch and made his way over to the man, wringing his hands.

"These two idiots from Accounting and Social want to take you on a lunch. Can you please agree, and get them away?" The man said, rolling his eyes, and Arthur nodded, letting his eyes drift away from the man and settle on John. A wide, child-like smile spread across his face upon seeing him, and John had to struggle at not letting his cheeks curve up as well.

"Oh, John! How terrific! Of course I'll get them away from you, Mr. Barley. Let me just get my coat, gentlemen, and I'll be right with you!" He said excitedly, turned on his heels, and disappeared into the crowd of Literature and Music that was clumping like dust around the post, which had just arrived.

John tried to glimpse what the anxious whisperings were about, but all he seemed to get were messes of tweed and time-pieces as they swung around wildly.

Mr. Barley, as Arthur had called him, rested on the doorway, looking back into the crowd, waiting for Arthur to re-emerge, and yawned suddenly, a desperate, gulping yawn that made John wonder if he had been sick. Fumes of medicine and coffee drifted his way, and he scrunched his nose, turning torward Charles who looked like he was about to burst out into a very childish burst of giggles at his discomfort.

Arthur reappeared suddenly, cap in hand and jacket slung over his shoulder, and he gave a nod to Mr. Barley, who let go of the doorframe and disappeared back into the room. Arthur stepped forward before the large wooden door slammed shut on him, and turned to grin at John, almost maniacally.

"Nice to see you again. Fish and chips?"

Charles had been looking on with disapproving eyes, and finally took John's elbow and swung him toward the entrance, leaning his mouth close to whisper in his ear.

"You'll have to excuse me a moment," John said, smiling again at Arthur, who looked on in confused amusement.

"Charles! Don't be rude! This is our guest for the moment!" He chastised him loud enough for Arthur to hear, then dropped his tone and looked him straight in the eye, the fringe bobbing slightly in front of him not helping his cause at all.

"What?" John asked, and Charles shrugged a bit, and said,

"I wouldn't trust him with my grandmother's diamonds, that's all. Be careful, Johnny," Charles seemed to warn, serious as the chill in the air, and John snorted quietly.

"He wouldn't harm a hair on a fly. Now, let's go to Harrison's and get ourselves a pint, eh Charlie boy?" John winked, and before Charles could smile at him and release his arm from his grasp, Arthur came up behind them and took John's elbow as well. Charles looked frightened by the least, and that was right before Arthur started tugging on them, forming a line like they were schoolboys.

"Sounds lovely. Let's go!" It took a smile aimed at John, strangely John alone, and a cold wind buffeting his face before he realized.

"Why, it's the middle of July!" He ejaculated, stopping suddenly, causing Arthur to get pushed forward by Charles colliding with his back.

"Yes, John, and?" Charles said, frowning as he adjusted his cap and brought it closer to him.

"It's not supposed to be freezing in July, old friend!" He looked up at the darkening clouds, and peered closer at them.

There was some sort of face in the clouds, he thought. He suddenly heard the ticking of a clock, a nonexistent time-piece, and squinted his eyes further, the ticking pounding in his head like a heart-beat.

"John!" Charles appeared in front of him, a furrow in his brow as he looked at John concernedly, and John shook his head a dozen times, grateful for that dastardly ticking to disappear, and smiled back at Arthur, who had shaken himself free of Charles and took a step back, looking guilty.

"It is always freezing in July, my friend. Just as it's balmy and warm in December. Did you hurt your head trying to get your cap on this morning?" Charles said, looking a squidge away from grabbing his shoulders and shaking the sense into him.

"Of course, sorry. I just... blanked out there. Terribly sorry. Let's go, shall we?" John smiled up at Charles, and reached up to pat him on the shoulder before turning toward Harrison's.

He carefully tried not to remember Arthur's guilty look aimed up at the sky.

* * *

><p><strong>work in progress is progressing yes<strong>

**review if you want to! :D**

**(no john isn't the master) **


End file.
